By a guy who’s been wrong, right, chased, pelted, lectured, and occasionally saved by his own instinct.
Let me break it down.
When I was a boy, I spent most of my time playing street games — running around like a feral cat with pockets full of marbles and absolutely no sense of self-preservation. But even then, I’d avoid certain kids. Not because they’d done anything wrong, but because something inside me — possibly instinct, possibly the same inner voice that tells you not to lick metal poles in winter — said, Nope. That one’s trouble.
Sometimes I was wrong. Occasionally I’d avoid a kid who turned out to be perfectly fine, just weird in a harmless way — like the human equivalent of a squirrel staring at you for too long. But most of the time, I was spot on. So was that instinct? Or was I simply reading people the way Georgie, my dog, reads the Roomba: with pinpoint accuracy and a readiness to run?
Fast forward to adulthood, and I still instinctively read people. I don’t judge them — just… sense them. Like a badger sniffing the air for danger, except dressed in office clothes and without the habit of digging holes. And while those instincts give me a nudge, I don’t let them decide whether someone deserves a chance. I’ve been wrong often enough to know that sometimes the person you’re unsure about becomes a lifelong friend — and sometimes the one you trust steals your lunch.
But oh, the joy of being right. That magnificent moment when you can declare, with the grace and subtlety of a man falling off a bar stool: See? Told you.
On Work:
Instinct at work is a different beast entirely. It’s never 100%. More like 67.385%. Sometimes I get a feeling something will go wrong. Other times, maybe I’m just subconsciously noticing the tiny clues — the twitchy eye, the badly timed email, the printer making a noise like it’s dying inside.
Still, I mostly rely on hard facts. Numbers. Reports. Things that don’t lie unless a politician is reading them aloud. But instinct has its place. Especially when quick decisions are required. In those moments, I imagine myself as a warrior — minus the sword, the danger, the heroic music, and instead armed with a stapler while standing next to the office coffee machine like a caffeine-fueled samurai.
Instinct is also useful when imposter syndrome creeps in. You know the feeling. You sit there wondering if you actually know what you’re doing or if you’ve just accidentally blagged your way into everything. Belief in yourself — however shaky — sharpens instinct.
On Romance:
My instinct here is broken. Not cracked. Not slightly damaged. Fully broken — like my sense of direction or a shopping cart with one wheel that spins violently to the left.
I’ve been in relationships that began beautifully and soon turned into horror-movie subplots. There was an Army woman who loved guns far more than she loved me — the sort who chased her ex with a loaded one. Hard pass. Especially when I woke up at 2 a.m. to see her cleaning an alarming collection of weapons on the kitchen table.
There was one who stalked me — which at first, I’ll admit, felt flattering. You think, Wow, someone cares this much? But then you realize, Ah… no. This is terrifying.
Another one seemed lovely until I discovered she was into the sort of “pharmacy activities” that get you featured on documentaries narrated by Morgan Freeman.
And there were others… enough to convince me my romantic instinct is about as accurate as a drunk badger with a map.
But then fate stepped in — because it certainly wasn’t instinct — and handed me my girlfriend. Perfect. Wonderful. Right for me in every possible way. I’m grateful, happy, thankful… and occasionally in trouble, but that’s part of the charm.
On Danger: Now this — this is the part of instinct that actually makes sense.
I don’t know about you, but whenever I walk into an unknown place, my gut immediately performs a full military assessment.
Dark alley? Nope. Absolutely not.
Random staircase leading somewhere dim and echoey? No chance.
Woods at night with wind whistling like a ghost rehearsing its lines? Turn back. Immediately.
Unfamiliar roads also trigger something primal — especially the ones where the streetlights vanish and the GPS loses its signal at the exact moment you pass a barn that looks like it’s seen too much.
And then there’s that very specific feeling… that uncomfortable little crawl in your stomach that quietly, politely says: “Dude… something’s off.”
That’s the instinct that kept our ancestors alive. And the one that keeps me from getting murdered behind a dumpster behind a gas station at 11 p.m.
Georgie has this sense too. Except his danger instinct activates for ghosts, shadows, delivery drivers, squirrels, plastic bags, and once… a pumpkin. But honestly? He might be onto something. Pumpkins are suspicious.
On Driving:
This is where my instinct finally works properly. On the road, my gut becomes a highly tuned early-warning system. I can spot a crazy driver instantly — the wide-eyed stare, the brake lights flashing like a Christmas display, the car wobbling like it’s powered by spite.
Doesn’t stop people from brake-checking me anyway. Or giving me the finger for no reason whatsoever. In Houston — naturally, because where else — I was once pelted with pennies by rowdy kids in cars that looked like they’d been cobbled together by Dr. Frankenstein using leftover toaster parts.
Still, the ultimate instinct for driving is simple: never drive impaired. Alcohol? No. Drugs? No. “Medicinal herbs”? Still no. Use your signals, share the road, don’t be a menace.
And yes, sometimes I lose my temper behind the wheel. Which always leads to the proper lecture from my girlfriend — the same girlfriend who once sideswiped a Mustang with her gigantic SUV. But she’s always right. And I always agree.
Sort of.
In the end:
Instinct is funny. Sometimes it saves you. Sometimes it embarrasses you. Sometimes it points at a squirrel and says, “Danger,” and sometimes it points at the wrong person and says, “Date them.”
But it’s part of being human — flawed, hilarious, occasionally brilliant, and usually just trying to make sense of the chaos.
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A Kings 
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